


Corruption Reverse

by An_Ephemeral_Walk



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Check Corruptions tags, Deity Au, Nothing more, a what if, not dead for longer than a few minutes and then back better than ever, nothing less, or in this case, the good ol' dead but not actually dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23830741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ephemeral_Walk/pseuds/An_Ephemeral_Walk
Summary: If, in Corruption, a different start had occurred.A potion ending a mortal life, starting an immortal one, but, not the one it claimed originally.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A study more than anything since it was asked before how this sort of outcome would look like.  
> In the interest of not really believing Corruption needs a whole rewrite or a parallel twin as this technically would be, No further chapters are planned, only this start. Should it be asked, more may be written, but I mostly wanted to give a starting ground for anyone else who wondered about the reverse start happening.

Mugman died in front of his brother on one fine summer afternoon.

Being fair to him, that was never his intent, hadn’t been either brother’s intent. Being left alone for extended periods of time by their godly caretaker meant murdering the one constant was just about the last thing on their minds if it ever even came across as a thought at all. But Mugman supposed it had been too good and too regular of a day, something was inevitably going to go wrong.

An easy summer day, starting out like any other. With Cuphead being the first awake and the first to start on daily chores. He’d been squirming up to dust the rafters in the family room when Mugman decided moving wasn’t as lame as early morning Mugman thought. Mugman had gone about doing his own chores lazily at first, naturally cold soul liquid a bane on swift morning movement. Cleaning up stray toys they still played with and reorganizing the scattered clothing that would need to be washed. Porcelain didn’t sweat, but two rowdy siblings found ways to get clothing mud covered or grass stained no matter what. He swore a pair of their clothing had been the experiments for one of Elder Kettle’s potions, but that never panned out. Somehow, Cuphead always found a way to come back in the house covered in leaves or mud or grime and no potion or spell corrected it.

Their literal god of a caretaker had once taken it as a challenge. And it had been sort of nice for him to be around for a few months, but as it always was, their caretaker got itchy feet. Or some worshippers called to him, prayed for him, and he was off again without ever finishing his goal.

Neither sibling blamed him though, it was hard to. He’d raised them to understand he was the last remaining deity free from the binds constructed to keep the other deities from harming the world as they once did. Of course the lone remaining deity would be busy. Busier still after the second to last deity had gone missing. Mugman, refolding a red pair of shorts, thought it would have been nice to meet that deity. If only to see if they were all as scatterbrained as the god of wisdom and magic who watched over the cup brothers. But then, Mugman supposed that deity never would have been able to approach anyway, even if they’d wanted to. Elder Kettle’s barriers were second to none, and no deity at all was getting through to the boys, no matter what. Elder Kettle had told them as much, proudly and warmly reassuring them after terrifying tales of vicious deities no longer aiding the world but crushing it instead.

The boys bedroom cleaned—easy despite the tornado that Cuphead could sometimes be—Mugman moved out to the kitchen. He was the one who scrubbed and kept things neatly in their place. Cuphead was the one who dusted and laundered. He also cleaned the chimney out, but that was only now, after Elder Kettle had removed that spell so the boys could learn how to care for more of the house. He’d remarked that doing so was necessary, and healthy. Keeping the boys moving and teaching them all the things that went into keeping a house nice. Neither brother minded, not when it staved off boredom, but they did still question how dusting and scrubbing kept them from being too spoiled. They wondered if Elder Kettle read that fairy tale book he’d given them.

Whatever the case, both boys were methodical in their chores, and then it was Cuphead dragging his sibling away from the spotless kitchen to the outside. Cuphead had a score to settle with the squirrels occupying the five trees they had access to. Mugman had some gardening to do. So while Cuphead waged war behind him, Mugman tended to the garden full to bursting with flowers, herbs, and fruits. All things Elder Kettle told them were toxic to porcelain, but perfect for ingredients. While he did, he wondered if Elder Kettle didn’t like gardening much since he’d actually known the nature gods. There had been nothing but the house itself when the boys were first brought to the house, but wanting to do more with their day, Elder Kettle had been nice enough to go out and find several things for them to plant and grow. It wouldn’t surprise Mugman if that was the case. Elder Kettle always got more reclusive after telling them stories. And sometimes he felt a bit guilty asking about the former gods who once roamed free, but it was never truly enough to stop them from doing so.

He reasoned to himself as he basked in the little patch of begonia’s, Elder Kettle didn’t even tell them much when they asked. It was always the same.

\---0----0----0---

A long time ago, over a hundred years in the past, numerous deities once peppered the lands. From the nature gods graciously spreading life and bountiful harvests for mortals. To the water deities guiding sailors to safe harbor, to the wind god chasing away the fiercest of storms. A wish god who once showered worshippers with whatever desire they had, a dream goddess who fought off bad dreams and brought about grand adventures that chased kids into eagerly awaiting bed times. All sorts of deities, Elder Kettle had told them while he rocked back and forth in his chair, two enraptured tots on the rug at his feet by the fire roaring away in the cozy fireplace.

All with their quirks yes, but none ever truly wrathful or terrifying. Fair and patient they’d all been. But time had a filthy way of changing things. A filthy habit of taking what was and warping it as the world pressed on and days continued. And despite their awesome power, not even the gods were immune. They’d changed, one by one, into vicious, vile things spreading not joy, but _fear._ Reveling in the terror their very presence caused the mortals, gleefully leaving entire towns devoid of life, hope, joy, and anything else they felt like taking. Malicious wretches they’d become, until finally the mortals ran to the one who’d not gone rogue.

Elder Kettle never got any happier when he told them of how he’d crafted a very careful plan. A way of containing the gods until they could be reasoned with or had burned out all the anger they had. One by one, the gods were swept to the place all deities knew as their home. All knew as the central haven for them to retreat to when there was a need for peace and temporary separation from the masses.

Inkwell Isles, where only the most devout—ones that the gods had taken a particular liking too and shuffled off to the isles where they’d live in near paradise as thanks for their company. Inkwell, a mass of land that had a special connection to the gods, though none were sure why or how. Once a welcoming haven, turned to a prison of unheard-of proportions. Elder Kettle spared no effort in his goals. The barrier he crafted was one of, if not the strongest. It was a beastly barrier that got its first test within the hour of the gods finding themselves trapped.

No amount of soaring to the skies above found an end or exit. No amount of swimming or digging found the bottom and no attack so much as made it shimmer. It shrugged their attempts off, and had held for over a hundred years. Elder Kettle would fall silent there, and then they’d be lucky to get any more. The most they got after that was a hearty scolding after the boys had gotten into a fight. Elder Kettle had warned them that fighting was what got many of the deities corrupted and trapped away. Each deity had a sibling, and fighting with their siblings had caused some of the corruption he claimed. He never went into detail on which deities or what kind of fight. But he’d never leave until it was clear the brothers before him weren’t exactly plotting fratricide anymore.

Cuphead, ever the proud brother, liked to scoff once Elder Kettle was gone. He’d tell Mugman how silly it was to think he’d ever hurt Mugman like that, and Mugman would loftily agree. Of course it was silly, the brothers had a solid even streak of maintaining the other. When Cuphead got too rambunctious, Mugman was more than willing to remind him of the time he’d lost to a tiny furry menace. When Mugman got too stuck on all the little things, Cuphead was quick to drag him outside or inside and distract him with games or the radio.

Neither sibling knew who was the eldest, and Elder Kettle just shrugged, equally lost. But Cuphead loved acting like he was the elder, and after reading all those fairy tales, Mugman was more often than not fine with it. Pulling from the methodical motions of pulling weeds from the garden, Mugman watched his twin try and chase down a butterfly. He’d given up the most recent battle evidently, not surprising though. Butterflies always caught their attention, no matter what they were doing. Both liked admiring the pretty wings of the creatures, and Cuphead had long since proven he was best at catching the bugs temporarily, enough for them to admire for a spot of time. And sure enough, like always, Cuphead got the critter to land on his hand. He carefully examined it this way and that, but Mugman wasn’t feeling up to joining Cuphead, no, he was feeling a mite bit mischievous.

“They taste with their feet, did you know? It’s probably tasting the defeat that squirrel handed you.”

Cuphead grimaced, shaking his hand to get the creature to flutter away as his face flushed red and he turned an indignant frown to the brother still surrounded by carefully cultivated flowers.

“Any time you want to get that tree back from them, be my guest!”

“Why big brother, don’t you know that sort of thing is your job?” A hearty batting of lashes, a flash of a grin, and Cuphead read it clearly, the game was on. The two would run around the house, never going further than a hundred feet from their home, not allowed by force of habit made from Elder Kettle’s near manic enforcement stopping just shy of setting up a barrier. They weren’t chained to the house, yet they were bound to it all the same.

It didn’t matter anyway, Mugman supposed, not when a game of tag was itching to be played.

\---0---0---0---

By the time the boys found their way back inside, both were sporting a few chips and cracks that would have had Elder Kettle steaming. If he hadn’t turned red-hot at the sight of the mud and grass both tracked into the once clean house. But he wasn’t there now, hadn’t been for a full two months now, and wasn’t likely to return for three more on top of that. It seemed the more he got used to them living on their own and not dying for it, the longer he was away.

Cuphead feigned dying of thirst, giving his brother a theatrically imploring look. Mugman rolled his eyes, but dutifully went to the kitchen removing his shoes first if only so he didn’t track more mud everywhere. He listened to his sibling wander off, eye twitching as the sound of boots continued further into the house. He supposed he’d just have to “accidentally” leave the windows open in the next wind storm, or leave dirt in places that would leave Cuphead confused.

Downing a glass himself, he filled another and quietly made his way into the back of the house, following the muddy tracks with budding ire. Really, he was going to steal his brothers head and hide it under the bed again, it was the only fair option at this point for all the cleaning Mugman was going to have to do now. Especially when his sibling had chosen Elder Kettle’s room, where all the countless potions sat, a testament to Elder Kettles ferocious need to experiment with magical outcomes. Walls utterly filled to the brim with potions, from the gross and unstable older ones on the top shelves, to the several repair potions made in case the boys got into scraps or tripped.

His ire died surprisingly fast upon seeing his brother examining an unusual potion.

“What are you doing?” His brother in red shrieked, almost dropping the potion off the desk it sat on. Cherry red eyes found him leaning on the doorframe, glass of water in hand, and Cuphead decided it wasn’t wise to irk the one who was very obviously standing in a way that lead his line of sight to the floor where the muddy trail rat him out.

“Well, I figured since it was taking you forever, I’d just find something else to drink. Preferably not water.” Fair, both siblings were blindingly bored of water, it being the only thing they actually had in the house outside of the rare treats Elder Kettle brought them. Raspberry and lemon, the only two tastes they’d ever had the fortune of trying in the form of ice chips magicked to stay frozen until being eaten. Understandable though it was, Mugman keenly remembered the few other times drinking strange potions had backfired.

“I thought you were done drinking mystery potions after the last one turned you pink.” The brother in blue pointed out, swirling the water in the glass casually. Cuphead grimaced, it had been more than pink, he glowed in the dark for a solid month. Enough that he’d been forced to burrow under the covers just so his brother could get some sleep. The memory of a brother cranky enough to herald horrifying fears of waking to find himself buried under the house almost got Cuphead to put the glowing blue potion down.

_Almost._

But water was _so bland_. So, Cuphead found a compromise.

“If it’s not a mystery, then it’ll be fine to drink!”

Mugman’s eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you practically dying for water earlier? We don’t even know where to—” Cuphead interrupted him easily, pulling the book the potion had been next to on the desk down to flip through. Reading that for what it was, he set the glass of water down and moved into the rarely used room to help.

\---0----0----0----

“I don’t see green sparkles, and there’s definitely no aftersmell of socks.”

“And you’re sure it doesn’t sometimes whisper arcane and possibly rude comments about our appearanes?”

“I don’t think it is?”

“Because if it is, then that makes it leather polish and we definitely can’t drink it.”

“Yeah, I don’t hear anything, so I think it safe!”

“You said that about the last one!” Mugman wasn’t sure why, but the very idea of his brother drinking that potion was making his soul liquid prickle with discomfort. He didn’t get it, but he wasn’t going to argue either. Cuphead heaved a sigh, perched on the desk as he was, he set the potion back down by his leg to look down at his sibling who had taken to using the table leg to lean against.

“Yeah, and I’m confident I was more miserable than you were. Do you have any idea how scary you get when you’re cranky? I swear you were plotting my death by day three of no sleep.”

“So you want a round two of that?” Mugman tossed back, looking down at the book they’d been examining. The potion sounded innocent enough, a potion of awakening it said. But that could mean anything from an energy booster to something that would wake the dead. Cuphead though, was sure it was harmless, confident in his ability to hear arcane comments about the red shorts being tacky. Cuphead was also a bit mischievous himself, and hadn’t quite forgiven Mugman for the squirrel comment, and so, trusting their hour worth of research, he plucked the bottle up, and poured half into his brothers’ soul liquid.

Mugman let out a high-pitched noise of surprise, the book was almost sent in the air, and Cuphead felt the laughter bubble up. Even when sharp blue eyes glared his way.

“Well, do you feel more polished than before? Or maybe less tired?” Cuphead debated staying up on the desk, away from the immediate retaliatory zone, but he also wasn’t keen on leaving himself in a vulnerable spot. So he hopped down in time to see Mugman shudder as the potion worked its way through his soul liquid.

Mugman’s face scrunched, an odd sensation curling through his body, filtered throughout his entire soul. There was more energy in him now, but he wondered if it wasn’t just the indignation fueling him as he glared and visibly debate just throwing the tome at Cuphead.

Only, he didn’t really get any further than hefting the book up to reopen it and reread the text around the picture. Perhaps they’d missed a sentence or something, but Mugman had an ever-increasing sense of _wrongness_ cloying into his soul.

The book never made it.

The arm bearing the brunt of its weight broke clean off.

Both siblings watched in stunned silence as the limb shattered entirely, turning to dust in a thin pool of soul liquid. Another crack followed barely a beat later, his legs, especially the one he’d put his weight on most, cracked off clear at the thigh. Mugman staggered, weight thrown off by the missing arm and destroyed leg. He lost the other leg a second later, porcelain just about disintegrating right before their eyes. Cuphead shot forward, panic doing nothing to stop the sudden downpour of “It’ll be okay! It’ll be okay, I’ll get you one of those repair potions, you’ll be just fine—” from spilling from him.

Mugman couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear beyond the rush and pulse of soul liquid succumbing to whatever had been in that awakening potion. His torso cracked, forcing Cuphead to hold onto Mugman’s head instead, the body collapsing like its strings were cut. Cuphead lunged, reaching for the closest potion. His hands shook so badly he had a distant wonder as to how he was even keeping ahold of his brother.

And then he felt even that start to crumble, and as the repairing potion fell to the ground, so did blue-tinted soul liquid.

Silent, not a single noise anymore. Nothing but soul liquid swirling and pulsing through porcelain in panic, unheard by anyone by Cuphead. Cuphead, who was covered in the remains of his brother. The litany of reassurances he’d been saying gone, his mouth ceased to work, his voice vanished, his mind empty of everything but one, single, horrifying realization.

It took but a few seconds later for his voice to be found, and he _screamed._

\---0---0---0---

Like any good brother, Mugman’s first thought was “I told you so.”

His second, upon realizing that he was actually back in the house, standing where he’d apparently died, was ‘I’m haunting him.’

His third was more a panicked noise upon finding his brother sobbing, desperately trying to pick the book up from the small pool of soul liquid with uncoordinated, shaky hands. He forgot thoughts of vengeance immediately, falling to his knees beside his brother, calling out to him. Cuphead though, didn’t react. He didn’t seem to realize his brother was right there, and Mugman figured out why when his hand went right through Cuphead’s back. He stared at the limb, then at his other hand, then at his feet and knees clearly _not_ going through the floor, and fury spiked. His brother was _right there_ and he wasn’t able to comfort him.

The rattling, cracking sobs slowly morphed into breathless rambles of ‘what do I do, what do I do, I need to, I don’t know what to do, what would you do? I don’t know, I need to, I need to, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll—I need to fix this, I need—” As he managed to peel the book from the floor and as the page of the stupid potion was found and examined. Mugman hummed, hopeful to have at least _one thing_ get through whatever was keeping him from consoling his brother.

Perhaps it worked, perhaps the soothing lullaby was what ultimately got Cuphead’s shaking to a manageable level. Or perhaps it was how his train of thought had gone from needing to fix it himself, to needing their caretaker to fix it because that was what Elder Kettle did. Then that shifted to something Mugman was _none_ too pleased with.

“The gods, the gods, Elder Kettle is a god, if he knows, then they know, they have to know, I have to fix this, what would you do? What would you do if I was like this?”

Mugman wanted to say “Not do whatever it is you’re definitely planning now.” But he got that sinking feeling in his chest as he watched Cuphead scrabble up and bolt for the front entrance. He got back to his feet, rushing to follow, and squeaking when Cuphead went right through him again, sprinting back for their room.

“Don’t be dumb, Mugs’ll scold you more if you’re dumb, prepare. Don’t worry baby brother, don’t worry, I’ve got this, I can fix this, I know—” Things crashed to the ground, clothing scattered, and .Cuphead didn’t care, didn’t pause in his rush to pack the book, some clothes to act as buffers to the potions he shoved hastily into the bag, and a few other trinkets his mind was confident Mugman would have grabbed. Then, he was sprinting for the door again, heedless of Mugman calling for him, following behind him as he’d always done to the door. Begging him not to go, to wait for Elder Kettle. He took a step to get out the front door, to chase after his rapidly disappearing sibling, and then there was a barrier sharply kicking him back into the house.

He crashed down on the floor, sliding back a few feet, and didn’t get back up. The ceiling was a lovely shade of shocked frustration, he wondered why he had never noticed it before.

‘ _Dear child? How young you are!’_

“I’m not that young.” He retorted, squinting at the ceiling as his body slowly finished figuring out whether limbs were missing from that impact. He didn’t get more than a huff in reply, but that was fine, he had a door to examine. Slowly getting back to his feet, he carefully approached the door again, and because he didn’t have anything else to test on it since his brother had gone through just fine, he eased his hand closer to the doorway. Nothing happened until he was a twitch away from the frame, where an angry buzzing became fully audible. Pulling his hand away quieted the buzzing, and so he stood there for a minute making the barrier clearly blocking him show exactly where it was.

Next, he traveled over to the windows, all of them. All of them hummed. Mugman rocked back on his heels, humming back. His mind carefully rolled out the paper and he got to writing the findings.

A prank had gone wrong, and he was quite certain he was dead now. A sibling had decided that the best course of action was seeking possibly hostile, mortal hating gods. A house had become a prison and was no longer keen to allowing him to come and go as he pleased.

_‘Sweet child, where is our dear Feather?’_

And the ceiling was talking.

Mugman started to wander about the house, carefully blank as he walked into their room, and that was about the time he caught his own reflection and actually took a moment to stare. He was dead, and now he was in a fancy skirt.

_‘Shendyt.’_

And he was a lot more gold than he had been before. Something not difficult considering how he’d not been gold or worn any gold at all previously. The symbols he had to lean closer to see etched into his porcelain were neat, but what wasn’t neat was how despite never seeing them before, he knew exactly what they said. Now, while far from entirely interested his new appearance, it still held him enough that he hadn’t really seen the shadows in the room growing darker and darker.

Not until a gold eye blinked into existence right over his shoulder.

Normally, he’d flail and leap away, but something was keeping his soul cool, his mind calm, the sight just wasn’t scaring him as he was sure it would have.

 _‘Too young, what has done this?’_ The eye narrowed, the shadows wisped like fire. So it hadn’t been the ceiling, the house hadn’t magically gained sentience. That was comforting, the house had seen many embarrassing things to include squirrel wars, he didn’t like thinking the house could nark.

Without verbally answering, he guided the shadows to the room of his demise, and a hand, no, a paw? No, a hand again. A paw, a clawed paw scratched at the soaked surface, saturated heavily with useless soul liquid tinged the same shade as that stupid potion.

“My brother ran away and he’s going somewhere dangerous. I need to get to him before he gets hurt.” Mugman spoke, not really registering that he was standing where he’d died not even an hour prior.

 _‘Too young, more time.’_ Came the reply. It was shaky, biting even, but the anger wasn’t directed at him. He got the feeling it wouldn’t ever be aimed at him, not for this.

“He didn’t mean it, you won’t hurt my brother, will you?” It was beginning to soak into his soul, he could feel the crawling sensation of shadows etching themselves, or perhaps shaking the sleep off and emerging? It was impossible to tell, and he was too young and inexperienced to ever really know. He knew, but wasn’t sure how, that shortly, it would know all of him, and he too, would begin to know all of it. He hated how the knowledge shouldn’t have been in his mind, but it was. Just as fast came the response, hushed, soothing reassurances that no, it would never harm his brother.

It was _furious_ at the potion, at the scattered remains, at the lack of a presence that should have been there, guarding its child until it was time. But it, and its charge, were patient. It couldn’t help escape yet, still trying to acclimate to its tiny charge, but soon. Patience did not mean fury wasn’t flowing just underneath the calm surface, it could wait.

Mugman supposed he could wait then, and as he stared at the open doorway, he felt the shadows coil around the house, tightening their hold, _preparing._

_There was weight in the air, and it would have judgement, and **retribution.**_


	2. Fruitful starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reverse shot.

Of the siblings, it was well known that the brother in blue was the one with a well of patience. At the very least that’s what it seemed to be. Based on his never-ending ability to roll with whatever his brother threw at him no matter the level of nonsensicalness. Now though, looking out at the sun as it hovered over the house showing two whole days had passed since his unfortunate end in a prank gone wrong, he was _thinking_. He’d scrounged up the sea charts, read the books on how to read said sea charts, and figured his sibling would be either landing on Inkwell or close to it. Books lay scattered about, pilfered of their knowledge of the threats awaiting his very much so alive brother.

Mugman currently stared at the door, the very thing that continued to bar his exit. He needed to find a way to get Elder Kettle to return, and get himself free so he could find his brother, and shove his head in the sand deep enough not a single god would be able to pry it out. Already more times than he could count, he’d reflexively smacked his forehead at the thought of Cuphead and his less than tactful ways approaching aggressive gods. Part of him got the sinking feeling he wasn’t doing it solely on imagination, and he dearly hoped it was wrong. The shadows of the house darkened the deeper his ire went, many flickering as if superheated with flames he couldn’t see. Not seeing any new ideas, at least not ones that didn’t reek of ‘Cuphead would have done this and the chance of it working is dubious at best’, he went back to their bedroom and looked in the mirror.

He took in his new appearance for the umpteenth time, focusing on the pictures-

_Hieroglyphs._

Words he supposed, faintly etched in gold on his porcelain. His shoulders bore the negligible weight of a golden collar, blue gleaming like liquid within the intricate patterns along it. The fitted top, much like armor he thought, blue with golden scales. The skirt…No, shendyt? Whatever it was, soft, but not telling him any new things about what he’d become. He looked, he didn’t want to say delicate, so he went with harmless. Which made him wonder, because even Elder Kettle looked opposing when he was angry. Mugman tried to give his reflection a glare, years of honing cute backfiring on him as he looked pouty more than anything.

With a huff, he wandered over to the spot he’d died. The soul liquid was nearly dry, the dusted remains scattered. Then, he looked around the room.

Elder Kettles room had a nasty habit of collecting more than dust, and he perked when he spotted a few potions aged to a degree of instability. Magic didn’t care for preservation, and often Elder Kettles return brought with it fun memories of tossing unstable potions at the cliffs or into the waters to see what would happen. Most often, that something was a great explosion.

The shadows froze, the soft hum that had been in the air fell silent, and blue eyes flashed gold.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Elder Kettle had been making his way back home quickly after the barrier he’d placed over the house registered a deity. It had scared him when the charm went off in his mind. The very thought that one of the gods had managed to escape and had discovered his house rattled him. More so when he remembered his charges were there, unprotected outside of the barrier and potions. So he’d gone from entering a city to hurriedly leaving it.

But then the attack hadn’t kept up, the barrier hissing, but doing nothing else. And curiosity began to bleed into the worry, then wash it away entirely. And the next he knew he was ambling his way back at a much slower pace. If the deity had wandered away, that was perfect for him. It meant the charges were safe, and he could relax and try to figure out which of the gods would have been able to escape. He wondered if it was that less than pleasant luck god.

He hoped not, it was hard to think of someone worse than that impish pool of chaos.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Mugman hummed, eyes curved upwards in delight as he delicately held the bubbling brown potion in one hand. It hadn’t been easy trying to climb. His outfit got in the way more than ever and his already poor climbing skills had suffered greatly in his haste to nab the bottles. He swore with every slip of his feet the thing now resting in his mind hissed with worry, but he’d managed. Three others sat on the kitchen counter, awaiting his decision.

He lightly tossed the one in his hand up, catching it again just as softly. He wondered how durable he was now that he’d dropped his mortal body.

The shadows twitched.

Oh, if Cuphead could see him now, he doubt his twin would think him totally unable to ‘live a little’.

‘ _Child, my child, perhaps it is more wise to await our Feather?’_

“I don’t want to wait on a mystery person while my brother risks his life on a prison island. If the barrier won’t be so kind as to leave, then I’ll have to have someone escort it away.” Mugman carried the least stable one over to the door, opening it with a flourish. The barrier crackled at his proximity, and gold eyes narrowed sharply at it, but the peppy smile remained firm. If this didn’t work, he’d just go to throwing regular things at the barrier he supposed. Or perhaps he could coax the family of chipmunks to get him stuff from the garden so he could make a barrier breaker. Then again, he doubt he had the ability needed to add a spark of magic powerful enough to take down a barrier made by the god of magic.

Whatever the case he walked away, pausing only when something took hold of his legs and forced him to stop walking.

 _‘A place to hide, far better than I can provide as freshly awakened as I am.’_ It spoke, the comforting voice in the shadows, in his mind.

The table was shoved to the side carelessly and under it sat a curious sight. A door outlined by shadows, invisible without them highlighting its location. Interest piqued, he readily changed direction for the little door.

It opened with a grand shriek of rusted hinges, rattling him down to his soul. But annoying sound aside, it gave way for him to peer down into the dark, where a tiny spark of golden fire caught on the bottom rungs of the ladder leading down into the ground. Curious at the sight, he began his trek down, leaving the unstable potion by the door. Cold air swept over him, the little flame sparking out as soon as he was close enough, engulfing him in shadow.

Then, down the hall flickered a new light. Dirt walls with so many etched runes he got dizzy trying to read them all illuminating with the soft gold. There, in the wisps of gold, was a room, tiny and tucked away. It was stacked to the brim with books, a desk, and papers.

Up above him, a shaded feline carefully nudged the bottles—all of them—over to the doorway. The hissing barrier amused it more than anything, and it trot back to the shadows over the trap door. A hound nudged it closed, long jackal snout leaving a mark on the wood. Golden eyes peered at the bottles, and curved upwards in glee.

Its child was a _delight._

A golden spark caught easily on the glass, super heating it faster than natural fire would, and as the glass began to rattle, it retreat, entombing the little room as best it could on the off chance the wards didn’t do enough to protect the room.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Elder Kettle felt _and_ heard it when the barrier was hit with a blow so fierce it cracked, holding only by a thread. The seaside rocked with the force of the explosion, and he swore a skull rose in that smoke, heralding imminent doom. He dropped the walk, soul pounding, and sprint like he hadn’t done in years.

He found the home he’d carefully built missing its entire front half. And amongst the destruction of the smoldering remains, stood one of his charges. He wheezed, warping the last bit of distance to appear before Mugman.

Gold eyes snapped to observe him the moment he appeared, and he froze. A weight descended on him, crushing and wrathful, growing disdainful the longer those golden eyes took him in. Then the boy blinked, and it was back to sweet blue.

“Hi Elder Kettle! I seem to be stuck here after Cuphead poured a potion in my head and I apparently died, and Cuphead’s gone and wandered off to Inkwell. Could you let me out please so I can smack him?”

With a pitiful wheeze, Elder Kettle squeaked, and fainted. Mugman blinked, frown on his face, shadows writhing in a mix of hatred and glee.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Waking up to his still dead charge, he’d forgotten his shock, replacing it with fury.

“Just what were you two thinking?! I told the both of you to be careful in my room, and you go on joking around in there!?”

Mugman’s big blue eyes stared up at him, shiny with unshed tears of fright. The part of Elder Kettle that was remaining rational remembered how long it had been since Elder Kettle had been truly angry at them. The boy was gripping his arms tightly, shoulders scrunched and body twisted away to appear smaller. Pangs of regret hit at the deity, growing the longer Mugman looked at him with fear, but he couldn’t stop, fury far too great.

“I thought I’d raised you two better! I thought all those years I spent caring for you both put sense into your heads, and instead I find one of you has murdered the other! Do you have any idea what level atrocity this is?! And you tell me he’s _gone to Inkwell! Not even born yet and he’s a murderous god!”_

“Please Elder Kettle, I don’t—”

Elder Kettle’s voice rose louder, drowning out the confused, tiny voice of the one before him. “Years! Boy I have spent years raising you two to prepare you to be proper deities and in one prank he’s ruined it! Was I not harsh enough? Should I have grounded the both of you more?” Elder Kettle rant, steam screaming from his nose and out from under his lid.

“He’s not murderous! It was an accident! You can fix it can’t you?” Mugman puffed up just a hint, clearly at the point of tears now, but whether it was because he was all Elder Kettle was shouting at or because Elder Kettle outright stated the fact of the matter, Elder Kettle didn’t know.

“No! Boy hadn’t you listened? You weren’t ready to be gods yet! You needed at least a hundred more years!”

“He—you…” Mugman’s breath hitched, his shoulders shaking as he strained to keep up with the rapid fire shouts. “You never told us we were gods, how were we supposed to know?” His voice was small, but the rational portion of Elder Kettle’s mind finally overpowered the fraught side and all of it froze. Mugman took that chance to press on. “We read up on it, and Cuphead was going to drink it but I wasn’t confident about it. I just didn’t want him drinking something gross, how were we supposed to know it would kill us, or… me?”

“What are you saying? I told the both of you, you were never mortal!”

“No you didn’t!” Mugman turned, stomping one of his feet on the ground, face flushing blue not with fear, but frustration. “You didn’t say anything about that, and now my brother is out on Inkwell and I’m stuck here getting yelled at by a god who lied to us about corruption!”

The air whooshed out of Elder Kettle in a beat at that word, his ire dying a vicious death. Frustration turned into fury, and then twisted, and it was then that Elder Kettle remembered he’d only ever dealt with an angry Mugman but a handful of times, and every time, it had been Cuphead who’d gotten the docile brother back down.

“Or did you think I wouldn’t see that now? Did you truly think you escaped what none of the others did?” The golden gaze was back, this time the shadows themselves darkened, highlighting the unnatural glow sharply. Mugman didn’t raise his voice, never being one for screaming or shouting. Instead it fell into a glacial hiss. “You’re _heavy_ , and screaming at me isn’t helping anyone but yourself. I thought you’d be rational enough to rant after you’d either gotten to Inkwell to bring Cuphead back or shown me how to get there myself. But if you’re going to waste whatever time I have left to get to Cuphead safely, then you’re useless.”

The shadows twisted, darkening further and further, coiling at Elder Kettle’s feet, as if intent on restraining him. Elder Kettle flailed back, his own Domain crooning and without waiting for him to do anything, the barrier fell. Instantly, the dark— _far too dark, how was such a sweet child giving such a dark expression—_ stare was replaced by a bright one. Mugman dart away, not bothering to wait or say any more to Elder Kettle. The god of wisdom and magic stood frozen, hand creaking from how tightly he clutched his cane. He vaguely heard his Domain croon again, wary now and somber. 

Eyes, golden eyes, lined in gold, iris bright and gleaming, but so _many._ They blinked open and surrounded Elder Kettle. The deity ceased all thought, all motion. Then, legs on autopilot, his own Domain pulled him, puppeteering him to the shed where another boat rested, ready for use. He dragged it down the beach to where Mugman had been pacing, testing the waters as if he intended to swim there.

“The boat will guide itself to Inkwell.” Elder Kettle heard himself say. “When you arrive, find my old home, its on Isle one, and it should still be safe enough and have supplies that you are welcome to use. Once you are on Inkwell, there will be no leaving until the corruption has been washed from the gods.”

Mugman nodded, hopping into the boat once it was deep enough into the water. He appeared to have cooled back down, and he sent a bright smile Elder Kettle’s way. He evidently wasn’t holding Elder Kettle for not going himself, likely knowing on some level that it would do more harm than good to put the god who’d locked everyone else away on the isles.

“Thank you, Elder Kettle!” His charge waved as the wind picked up and the sail crafted with magic puffed up. Sunny, the smile was sunny, and warm.

The shadows hovering behind him were not.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-Two days in the future with Cuphead-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The waters went eerily still after he passed a certain point. The sky fell heavy with thick clouds that looked constantly on the verge of unleashing enough rain to return the island before Cuphead to the sea. The air turned cloying, a fog descending on him and obscuring the once clear view. All in all, a cold welcome, one that felt twice as heavy for some reason he couldn’t tell. The moment he stepped ashore, it felt like the very ground itself recoiled at his shoes, still bearing the traces of soul liquid. He clutched the bag strap tightly, leaving the boat behind and making his way up to a horribly grown over path.

To his right, the distant sight of trees and the rest of the Isle. What must have been pretty in life was rotted and greyish green in death. The grass under his feet crunched, dry as bone despite the thick fog in the air. And the fog, he swore it smelled like rotting dirt. Like plant matter that was beyond expiration and into ‘producing dubious lifeform’ territory. It was horrible and made him start an honest debate on just not breathing for the time he spent on Inkwell. There were still leaves on trees, still grass on the ground, overgrowth eating anything it could, but all of it lacked life. He felt like his eyes had lost the ability to see true color. Even his bright red shorts looked dull in the poor, broken pieces of sunlight that managed to claw through clouds and fog alike and reach the ground. A pressing silence enforced the idea that what he’d just stepped onto wasn’t natural. Part of him immediately wanted to turn back around and leave as quickly as he’d arrived, that part got shoved into the metaphorical dirt and told to be quiet.

To his left, a house that made his soul liquid curdle. He sucked in a sharp breath, fighting through the blistering tightness in his chest to go towards the replica of their home. It wasn’t the same house, and Elder Kettle said he’d had a home on Inkwell. It was unnerving that Elder Kettle appeared to have just rebuilt his home on the mainland, but he didn’t really care for thinking about their absentee caretaker right now. Not when he had to focus on the task at hand.

The door was still intact, though missing its handle. It swung open with hardly a creak, something the paranoid child was thankful for. He felt like making a sound on Inkwell was the worst Idea out there. Carefully, he crept in, listening for the slightest disturbance in the air, but finding still silence. Easing his way in, he soaked in the discolored, dust covered floor. Furniture lay scattered and smashed, leaving the interior looking like someone had raged inside the home and left hardly a cabinet untouched in their wrath.

It was eerie to see his home look so distorted and broken, but helped distance it from his actual home in a way. He would never have let the home fall to such a dusty demise, and his brother—

Porcelain hands clenched the strap tighter, creaking under the force. His feet carried him past the front entrance, past the kitchen and living room, and into the room that would have been the brothers. It was empty, devoid of anything that might have told Cuphead about Elder Kettle’s brother. That was a bit of a downer. He had hoped to learn something about the elusive sibling. Especially since he was running on the belief that if he found Elder Kettle’s brother, then he’d find someone who knew about the potion and would be able to tell him how to fix what he’d done.

His spirits lifted as he pondered just what Mugman was going to do to him. He bet it would be telling Cuphead ‘I told you so’ followed by a hearty smack across the face or even burying his head. Mugman was a pro at hiding Cuphead’s noggin in places that left him confused. Not gone forever, his brother _wasn’t_ gone forever. He’d get Mugman back and take whatever retribution Mugman had planned for him.

Carrying on, he went into Elder Kettle’s room, and found a few potions here or there that were far from healthy looking. Reminded of the volatile habits of old potions, he decided to stuff a few of the slightly less aggressive looking ones in his bag. If his enemies were immortal, he might as well have a means of making them regret life. Even more interesting than the potions though, were the papers absolutely covered in runes and sigils. He found many of them stuffed under the torn pillow, and without much pause, stuffed those in the bag as well. He wasn’t quite sure why, but it felt like a good idea, and he swore he recalled Elder Kettle telling them it wasn’t just potions that held his magic.

When nothing else really stood out, he wandered back out of the house, not willing to stay longer. Not when flashes of shattering porcelain— _wide blue eyes, full of confusion and fright and a hand reaching for him and him being useless—_ no, it was best to move on.

He reached a bridge, thick with cracks and crumbling slowly with disrepair. And sporting an apparent victim. An apple, muttering and staggering back and forth on the bridge, seemingly not seeing him. But that wasn’t really surprising considering there was a big, molding chunk removed from the red apple’s head. Bite marks, someone was not only big enough to take a bite out of the taller person in front of him, but the apple was then left there. How long, he didn’t know, and he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to find out. Especially when he was still not confident in speaking. This guy wasn’t a deity, that much was certain, but if he wasn’t, then he was proof of what the gods did to mortals.

He managed to slip by unnoticed, but at the other end of the bridge he paused. Turning back, he looked at the pitiful shambling, and, heaving in a breath, he rummaged carefully through his bag. He swore he heard his brother hum in approval, and suddenly remembered all the ghost stories they’d read. He shuddered to think he was being haunted by his sibling right at that moment. He silently thought to himself that he was only doing this because if the guy wasn’t nice, then healing him meant the guy might make noise and keep the gods away from Cuphead. If he was nice, then he might find Cuphead and tell him exactly where to go to find Elder Kettle’s brother. Either way, it didn’t hurt to leave a potion.

The mortal continued to wander back and forth once more before it noticed the bottle now on the rail of the bridge. Bright green liquid illuminated a tiny circle. Picking it up, the mortal looked through one good eye at the retreating back.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Not a single sound of life thus far, not until he got about halfway down the path from the bridge. On his right he heard voices, people arguing it seemed.

“Chauncey, I swear if your stupid carrots grow even _one_ inch closer to my potatoes, I’ll kill you.”

“Ha! Like you wouldn’t just get your ass handed to you.”

“I don’t have an ass, none of us do!”

“I was going to say I’d punch your brains out but you aint got those either!”

“Say that to my face you sack of fertilizer!” A sound of someone being smacked upside the head burst out.

“Guys? Could you try for even a single day where you don’t fight?”

“Zip it Ollie! The elders are talking here.”

“You aren’t that much older than me.”

“ _Ollie.”_

Cuphead rest his chin on his palm, elbow propped up on the fence as he watched the fight. His nose scrunched, reflexively deeming the taller beings in the dirt to be gods, and not too nice ones. Especially considering the bones of previous victims he spied lying about. The whole place was a sorry display of half dead plants and vegetables and fruits that lacked even half the color the ones at their garden had. Splatters of old liquid, likely blood or whatever made up the innards of victims lay about, staining just about everything other than the gods. The place smelled worse than the fog too, rotting flesh clear and cloying. He remembered the time the boys found a bird that had died in the rafters, that smell was impossible to forget. There was no way these gods weren’t anything short of hostile, but he _had to_ ask.

As the one told to be quiet sniffled and turned away from the duo, he debate catching their attention, then decided the slightly less aggressive looking one would be best. He strolled over to the onion, hopping back onto the fence so he could get a better view of the guy.

“Hey.” He spoke plainly, not raising his voice. It worked, and the onions big eyes focused on him, thick with tears that reeked and made his eyes twitch. “You know anything about potions?”

“Huh? No.” Ollie answered, wringing his hands sorrowfully. Cuphead nodded and made to hop off the fence, but Ollie wasn’t done. “But Chauncey might know, hang on. Chauncey! You know anything about potions?”

“What?! Why would you think I’d know about those stupid thi—” The garden went silent. Cuphead, in that moment, decided he hated even the onion.

“Is… Who—”

“A mortal! So you lot _did_ manage to survive.”

“Ey, Chauncey, he’s a porcelain tyke, those guys don’t have to eat.”

“You’re right, maybe the mortals on the mainland are indeed starving then!”

“Guys, he can hear you.” Ollie sounded scolding, but it was telling how he only scolded the other two on the fact that they were ignoring Cuphead, not that they were talking about starving mortals right in front of a mortal.

“Wow, is this a graveyard or a garden?” Cuphead drolled, the air of mild distaste around him the sole reason no one saw his hand rattling.

“What?!”

“This is sad, there’s no way you guys know anything useful. Sorry to bother you.” He said, dropping off the fence and leaving three gods whose jaws were quickly becoming one with the dirt beneath them. In the back of his mind he swore he heard his brother smack his forehead. He thought to his mental version of Mugs that it was in control; he knew what he was doing.

He got as far as a weird cart looking building with words too faded to read on its side. The ground behind him erupted and he was forced to duck and shift away from raining dirt. Turning, he came face to face with the bright orange face of a massive carrot whose teeth were audibly grinding.

“What kinda rude little punk do you think you are.”

“My brother calls me tragically endearing.”

“I—wha.”

“The bigger question is why are you all wasting your time talkin to me when you could be learning how to garden. I heard there were gods for that. Course, the book said they sucked at it towards the end of their freedom but who knows how right that is.”

“Um, we’re those gods.” Ollie said, looking a decidedly unpleasant shade of red.

“You little shit! You got some nerve talking to Gods of the harvest like that! Do you honestly think we’d be nice just cause you’re mortal? Do you know what we’ve done for lesser insults?” A hand smashed down mere inches from him, making the ground shake. His soul liquid raced despite his blasé appearance, his mind racing, lamenting how he hadn’t just seen their terrible garden and left. These gods looked entirely ready to kill him. And they’d followed him despite his dismissal of them, and he doubt he could outrun gods who could appear out of the dirt. So it was plan B then, getting them mad kept them unfocused, but it didn’t up his chances of escape. He just hoped plan B worked, especially now sure as he was that these gods weren’t going to help him at all.

“Oh, you’re them? Huh, then this is upsetting. To think I had an offering and everything. I was gonna ask them stuff too… Are you sure? You don’t look real godly.”

Cuphead swore if the potato turned any redder with fury he’d actually turn into a fry from the heat of his own rage alone. He ignored the furious sputtering and reached into his bag. Using his hand to cover it, he held the bottle up. “Could you take this anyway? Even if you aren’t, I don’t think I’ll be getting useful stuff out of them anyway.” A testament to old habits dying hard, Chauncey did indeed grab the thing, and he and his two brothers focused on the little bottle of bubbling silver liquid. Cuphead took that opportunity to snatch a rock off the ground, and backpedal as quickly as he could without gaining much of their attention.

“What even is this? This one of Kettle’s potions?”

“Has to be, who else makes stuff that looks like that?”

“I’ve never seen silver though, that is interesting.”

Yes it was interesting, Cuphead agreed as he got a hearty distance away, pulled the rubber band back, and took careful aim. As they looked up, he caught a glimpse of that red apple, gaping at him from the trees, healthy as could be. And now that he thought about it, the bite looked like something one of these guys could manage. So, he really didn’t feel bad when he let that rock fly.

The rock hit the bottle, the bottle exploded, and the liquid inside splattered, immediately shifting from silver to deep black. The gods blinked, blinked again, and Cuphead was glad he’d moved away. He dove back as the potion steamed and then erupted into a pillar of fire. Chauncey and Ollie had been closest and the splatter had hit them. Cuphead was already sprinting away as the fire began to crackle far louder than it naturally would, as the gods shrieked in surprise. The explosion that followed made him confident he wasn’t going to be seeing any of them any time soon.

He dove into the tree line, hoping the trees would make popping out of the dirt less pleasant. The screams and shouts of fury kept on for a good five minutes, then it moved further away, likely back to that garden, and Cuphead sighed, wondering which way to go now that he had to avoid that whole area of Inkwell. If that was how the other gods were going to act, he was going to need _way_ more potions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of how things would go on Inkwell. I basically combined chapter 2 and 3 of the original. But that's because i needed to answer a bunch of questions. This story does rely heavily on comments and questions after all. Its why this is still marked complete, I don't intend on rewriting Corruption unless its fully requested, no matter how much dang fun it is to write this AU.   
> Anyway yeah! Cuphead ain't near that nice bundle of sweet that Mugman was when meeting the root pack. He was already displeased with the garden and the bite and the gut feeling telling him approaching the root pack was bad. But gotta be sure they really won't be of any help. Should he have tried to be nice at first? He doesn't seem the sort to be nice to people when they act so aggressive even to their own siblings. If Chauncey was willing to threaten and snap at his siblings, Cuphead wouldn't see it being any more likely he himself would be safe. The biggest thing to remember is this Cuphead isn't keen on giving people a lot of chances, that's Mugman.  
> And Mugman! Let it be known that gremlin has no trouble wreaking mayhem if it gets him what he wants. He's just smarter about it than Cuphead was. Why throw a tantrum when you can just erase half the freakin house! Besides, Cuphead genuinely believed in the original Corruption that Elder Kettle would return, Mugman wasn't so confident(for good reason) and just kept the hope of Kettle returning on the backburner, rather than plan A.


	3. And More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, its starting to split from the original. Interesting~

Calm seas, that was nice. Mugman thought he’d been bored at that house, but oh, oh he’d found something worse. He had barely noticed he crossed the barrier locking everyone into Inkwell simply because he was berating himself for not taking anything useful with him. At the very least he could have found a book about the gods.

It was the oppressive aura smacking into him that woke him from his internal scolding. Looking around, his brows furrowed deeply at the sight of a dismal, decaying once paradise. The bleak colors, the thick fog, the dead sea, the pounding silence, there was nothing even remotely familiar to Mugman from the pictures Elder Kettle had shown them years ago. He knew Inkwell had been so steeped in magic, in the Domains finding the isolation nice, that it slowly began to emulate the state of the gods. Three hundred years ago, it was a wonderful, welcoming little trio of isles. Always sunny, always soaked with greenery and life, with the clearest blue waters in the world.

Now, now the seas were murky, the fog crushed any sense of life the isles might have had on them at that moment, the skies were hidden away. It was disconcerting that gods could be so corrupt in their faults and sins that they’d leave Inkwell, their home, looking so poor. The moment the boat touched the sand, he was out, taking in the greyish white of a shriveled tree trunk.

“Oh you poor dear, look what they’ve done to you.” He cooed, bending down to get a better look at a half dead flower. The very air around him pulsed, and he felt it. The weight of the Isles on him, attention solely on the newest intruder. His shadow hummed.

_‘Our deepest apologies for disturbing you,’_ He heard his Domain speak.

“So long with such nasty company, I’m terribly sorry to follow their lead and ask a favor, but please. Have you seen my brother? He wears red, and he’s a bit abrasive sometimes.” Mugman left the little flower alone, sad the thing was so decrepit he couldn’t even tell what type it had been. Normally he’d find it weird to be trying to talk to something he couldn’t see, something that was definitely scrutinizing him carefully, but if his Domain was doing it, then he would too.

The draining force on him receded, the air lightened significantly, and though the fog remained, it was light enough that he could the outline of a very familiar house. The ground under his feet shook, an odd rolling sensation leading his attention to the right, towards the other two isles. Instantly Mugman’s face bloomed with a glowing smile. He clasped his hands together and politely thanked Inkwell.

_‘We will lighten your burdens, your sorrows, we will cleanse your beloved gods of their sins, all I ask in return is that you protect that which is dear to my child.’_

The grass around the tiny god lost just a hint of their dismal grey, and with that glowing smile, a bit of hope bloomed on the Isles.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

He’d wanted to go straight towards where his brother was supposed to be, but he remembered Elder Kettle mentioning his home. With reassurance that if Cuphead was truly in trouble of dying, his Domain would know, Mugman swiftly made his way to the house, but paused right outside it, looking past its forlorn, ratty roof out to a curious building behind it.

A lighthouse sat, looking worse for wear, but not as broken as Elder Kettles’ old house. He moved around the house, not keen to entering a place so like the one he’d destroyed, a place that acted as a double for the final resting place of his mortality. Part of him hoped that the height of the lighthouse would help him get a better look at Inkwell, but when he reached the edge of the isle, he discovered there was no bridge to the lighthouse. It was entirely separate from Inkwell, and for as long as those waters remained eerily still, he wasn’t going to try swimming.

He frowned, a bit upset he wouldn’t be able to use the building at all. Turning on his heel, he was greeted with the sight of a grand tree shifting in the ground, then rising, tipping over, and crashing down on the rocks between the isles. The force of impact was enough to lift him off the ground, but he hardly cared, too busy reeling from the shock of seeing a tree move in such a fashion. It only lasted a breath, then he was hugging the tree as best he could before scampering onto the newly made bridge and jogging across.

Really, he was going to owe Inkwell after all of this.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The lighthouse door was locked, but he’d learned things while back home. Things that would technically be called illegal, but his brother was no snitch, and neither had gone out enough for it to be a problem that Mugman had the lock popped open after some adjustments to his straw and a sturdy little twig. Then it was into a place so thick with disuse even the cobwebs had cobwebs. The dust was so layered he swore it had eaten and replaced the carpet. It was enough that he staggered back out and sucked in the not so sweet or really fresh air of the foggy outdoors. There would be no breathing as long as he was inside.

Sparce of furniture, the bottom floor seemed hazy in the faded light entering from the door. With nothing really jumping out as interesting, he made his way over to the stairs and eased his way up the stone steps. Outside of the light, with so few windows, it was impossible to see where he was going. Not until a little fire bloomed before him, following the edge of the staircase where it met the wall all the way up the spiral until he couldn’t see it. In the golden glow, Mugman truly took in just how thick the dust was. He’d been wrong, there had been no carpet, the dust was just that thick. He shuddered, never a fan of grime, and kept his quick pace, quickening it further in the light of the golden fire.

Up what felt like ten flights, he found a door. The door was in surprisingly good condition, dustier and more cracked than anything. The varnish on the wood decayed but not to a degree that it hid what had once been a lovely oak door. It squeaked open, oil fighting past the dust to quiet the movement down as best it could. And inside, a field of dust in a room packed to the brim with plush furniture. Whoever lived in the lighthouse had loved the cushy life he supposed, but with how thick the dust was, he doubt they’d been around a while. Across from him, there was another door, and that lead out to a balcony.

Shoes now thick with dust, trekking up the slick stone exterior steps had his soul liquid racing. Especially when he slipped and his smooth porcelain scrambled to grip mossy, wet steps. He caught himself, but it was enough that a bloom of fire ripped up the stairs much to his astonishment. Flashfire heat intense enough it whisked away the water drenching the steps faster than Mugman could follow, giving him a clear path. He looked back at his shadow, catching sight of gold eyes narrowed in worry, tilt his head, and hastily rushed up the rest of the stairs.

At the top, he sighed. The fog, thick as it was, still pressed too thickly even as high as he was for him to get a decent view. But, it was more than before. In the distance, a tall skyscraper blearily looking over the lake of vapor, and closer than it, a Ferris wheel that sometimes shifted. Mugman wasn’t sure how discomforting it was that the clearly rusted out ride made no noise that he could hear when it shifted, but it was more than he cared to take in longer than a few seconds.

He blinked and the Isles suddenly looked _vastly different._

Black miasma swirled heavily at various points, despairing cries echoed in a haunting song of tragedy spilling into his mind and sending him staggering back away from the rusty railing. He toppled backwards, crashing into the wall and sliding down the moss soaked stone. Gold returned to blue, and the sight vanished, the sounds died away, and Mugman was left shivering in the startlingly welcome silence.

_‘I cannot see our Feather, I apologize, but the cause of such misery… Inkwell has been kind, and those beacons of festering sin will serve us a dual purpose. Come, I will show you a better means of travel I am sure you can handle now.’_

Mugman almost shrieked as the floor under him became liquid. Flailing limbs failed to grab anything to prevent him from sinking, but within a spare second, he was at the base of the lighthouse.

“Stop that!” Mugman snapped, disoriented and frightened. His shadow crooned, wisps of shadows curling softly around him, thick fur brushed against his back, and rumbling purr echoed out. Regretful and seeking forgiveness, Mugman took a moment to settle his thoughts.

_‘My sweetest child, I did not mean to scare you. I was too excited to finally show you what I can do, what I have given you. I will be more careful now.’_

“One at a time, please…” Mugman replied, giving a full-body shudder to shake off the rattles. He went back across the tree and dipped into Elder Kettle’s former house.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Footprints, his brother’s footprints. The sight made a wave of relief weaken Mugman’s knees. The ensuing realization that his brother was indeed on Inkwell, proof of him being well and curious on a definitely less than pleasant island… His brother was somewhere on Inkwell, maybe even near one of those horrible void black shades he’d seen. He only stayed in the house long enough to dig around for anything else interesting, including going into the underground hidden room and looting it of dubious potions.

Then he was hurrying back out, thanking his Domain for being so kind as to hold onto the potions. He got over a bridge, noting the worn line towards the center of the bridge, like something had been pacing for decades in that one spot. Upon getting past it, he came to a fork in the road. Humming, he looked right and left. Ahead of him was a rather quaint little building, and though he was tempted to see what was inside, he needed to find anyone alive that might know where his brother was. The ground under him felt a bit like it was tilting to the right, so that was the way he went. Which was when he finally found his first sign of life.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Sal, quit moving! I already got a headache I don’t need you makin it worse!”

“Well excuse me for wanting t’ see if them punch happy brothers left any brains left!”

“Oh this has been a terrible week. First we get our very first new mortal and he blows us up, then we get in a fight with Ribby and Croaks… Ohh this is terrible.”

“Quit bitchin’ Ollie, that ain’t helping me either!”

“I’m sorry, did you say a mortal blew you up?”

“Yeah! Can you believe it! Just put a potion in my hand and blew it right up! Didn’t even know they could do that!”

“Gracious! I’m so terribly sorry. I’ll see about scolding him for that later. Do you know which way he went?”

“Cagney’s place last we saw. Probably being used as a flower pot right about now.” Chauncey answered the unusual voice. He was answered by a thank you, and then the sound of Sal letting out a noise akin to a dying camel. It took Chauncey a moment to open his totally healed eye and focus it on the sight of a tiny little thing walking away, and his brothers looking at him like he was a moron. “Oh.” He muttered.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The ground around him burst, raining dirt rather rudely all over him. Already he was silently rescinding his thought to scold Cuphead. Opening his eyes—he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them—he came face to eye with a very tall carrot. The rest of the carrots face was a bit of a pulsing mess of healing flesh, and his coloration turned a bit green. On his left was the onion, looking like the upper half of his head was missing, and on his right, a potato, singed and stinking of burnt flesh.

The shadows darkened.

“Well, what do we have here?” Sal leaned close, shoving his face right next to the little thing shaking dirt out of his outfit.

“Hold on Sal.” Chauncey shoved his hand into his brothers face, dragging him away. Though his third eye was wounded, it crept open and managed to catch a glimpse of something that his blurry third vision strained to understand.

“Wait! I think I saw that stuff before!” Ollie leaned closer, using his height to peer into the strangers head. “It was on that rude fellows shoes I think.”

“What? Oh yeah, got that smell it does!” Sal’s voice came out muffled, Chauncey’s hand remained on his face. The tallest tried to read the gold peering at the trio around him, getting only shadows, a bare glimpse of gold here or there. It was unnerving and he wasn’t too sure how safe it was to be so close to what was clearly not mortal.

“I think we got ourselves a new god, how long’s it been Sal?” The carrot finally asked casually, deciding the one surrounded was far too young to be a threat. No one with such a curious, open expression could be scary or dangerous, not to gods like them. Sal didn’t answer verbally, he just grinned wider, seemingly uncaring of the hand over his face as he made no move to remove it. Besides, the longer they sat around him the more frightened he seemed to get, looking between the trio, growing more and more pale.

Ollie however, cooed. He sank just enough so the tiny thing didn’t have to strain to look him in the eye and put his hands on the ground before him. Like he was trying to show he was no threat unlike his siblings.

“Shucks, you really are that horrible fella’s victim aren’t you? Inkwell don’t talk to us anymore but we still get an idea of what walks on it, he’s got your soul on his shoes and well, you have to be dead to be what you are now… Are you after him for revenge?”

“What?” The young god finally spoke, his voice high with confusion, and perhaps a tinge of fear if they were all really paying attention. Ollie gave him a patient smile.

“Don’t worry, you won’t come to any harm from us! Oh it’s so wonderful to finally see a new god! So many memories it brings up! Why, you should have seen us when we were first reborn! Boy, I don’t think Chauncey got even a foot without comin’ up with a new idea for things to grow.”

“Ollie!”

“He’s new! Don’t tell me you weren’t confused when you were born because I was there!” Ollie scolded. “Though, none of us were born from being murdered by I’m going to guess family? I think some of the other gods were murdered though, but we can still help!”

“Why would we help?”

“What’s your Domain?” Ollie asked, ignoring Sal’s snappish question.

“What?” Two big gold eyes blinked a few times in utter confusion, and slowly, even Chauncey loosened his previously hostile stance.

“Gee, you can’t go huntin’ for revenge if you don’t even know basics!” Ollie continued, rather taken with the little one.

“Not like we’ll be much help, ain’t heard from our fussy Domain in _years_.” Chauncey groused, eying the deity with his fully healed good eye.

“When _was_ the last time we heard it?”

“Oh hell if I remember. I think a few days before we got stuck here?”

“Nah it was earlier than that, I think during the last famine?”

“The western hemisphere one or the eastern?”

“Ahh shiii…take mushrooms…”

“That’s not important!”

“It might be if his turns out to be a brat too! Hey, you got a chatty Domain? I got a shadow I think, didn’t see much else.”

“What?”

“Don’t just ask new gods what their Domain’s are like! Chauncey!”

“It’s really been a long time since we heard ours, ain’t it.” Sal, oddly subdued, stared at the little one before him. Gold peered back, lost and clearly not following their poor line of questioning. It reminded Sal of Ollie really. In the old days when Ollie would excitedly chat away with their wordy Domain. He’d been the first to take to the new voices they were privy too via their warm Domain. But they hadn’t been warm in over a century. He wondered if this one would go cold too. He wondered if the kid had been scared, especially after being murdered by family. He didn’t know how he or Chauncey would react if their youngest sibling had been killed, but more than that, this little deity was so _new_. Sal wondered where he came from. Perhaps that mortal had murdered him and locked him away on the mainland?

The trio had Cagney and Rumor as guides in their early years on top of their Domains. But this one didn’t even seem to understand what a Domain was, much less what his was. Was he locked away from his Domain already? Had the mortal done it? They all knew that magic god was still out there, the one who’d trapped them all. He wondered, through the link all of them shared through their silent Domain, if that mortal had run off to catch another one. Or perhaps he ran out of fear after his prize grew too strong to keep locked up? Inkwell would certainly be the last place a free god would go if they knew better. Or maybe that mortal was just grabbing supplies to renew a cage for this little one. Siblings weren’t always good, they’d certainly seen their fair share of terrible families.

“Oh I know! Ribby and Croaks! They still talk to their Domain right?” Ollie spoke up, voice strained with horror. Chauncey nodded sharply.

“Yeah, yeah they mentioned that… at some point. And they can give some pointers on how to break a fratricidal maniac too. Why don’t we go mosey on over? I think they’ll have gotten over our little spat by now, and if not, I ain’t above apologizing right now.”

“What?” Mugman felt hands push onto his back, and the next thing he knew he was being lead by the trio who surrounded him still towards a set of stairs. At the clearly decayed state, the trio grimaced. Chauncey plucked the little thing up off the ground—the tiny squeak he let out was frankly adorable, and that brat somewhere on Inkwell was going to have to watch his back real careful now—and they dove into the ground, careful with their new cargo.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Run.

How had he never taken those races more seriously?

He needed to run _faster_. Faster than they could catch up. Soon, it’d be soon they’d realized he’d given them the slip. The shouts from the barge were already muffled by thick fog, but that wasn’t enough, he wanted to not hear anything from that side of the Isle. But going over that bridge was the last thing he ever wanted to do again.

Cuphead’s soul raced through him, desperately pouring energy into motion his haggard body just didn’t have stored anymore. He fled up a flight of stairs, having blazed a trail past that decrepit shop what felt like a minute ago, but was more thirty seconds. His boots pounded the dry, rotted ground, scarcely finding purchase on slick, mossy stone before being lifted to continue the mad dash. He flew into the tree-line, taking some comfort in being on higher ground, away from that river, and away from that _thing._

It was bad enough those horrible twins got in his face after one of them must have caught sight of the stains on his boots. He hadn’t even meant to go on the stupid boat in the first place! The previous victims of his impatience and nerves had been far too close after he’d forgotten which way he came from in the fog and ran back into them. This was what he got for resting after retreating back to the stairs. He got angry gods hounding him until he ran aboard the barge, believing there was no way for landlocked gods to get on the water. The next he knew he was down a hall, passing by several utterly gross remains of the largest bugs he’d ever seen. In the back of his mind he could practically hear his brother’s high-pitched shrieking and scrambling for higher ground.

Honestly it may have been the snort that tipped off the owners of the boat that they had more than corpses as guests. That, or the half-decapitated fly that had ushered him into the central portion was the actual nark. But whatever did it, the minute he’d gotten far enough in, he’d found himself in the presence of two frogs? Toads?—He hadn’t read that far into that book, choosing instead to toss it aside for a book about shrimp—who were in the midst of an argument. He hoped it was about who was going to clean the mess their barge was finally. The place was horrifying to even be in let alone live in as they must have. Literal piles of bodies in various stages of rot dotted the whole of the arena like body of the barge. What really turned his coloration green was the living picking at those piles. Crunching away on mildew and mold and rot infested flesh. He wasn’t even sure the wooden floor _wasn’t_ just inherently black or if that was a century or more of dried fluids.

One threw a punch, and he and the other not quite dead flies watched as it devolved into a brutal fight Cuphead had never seen before. Not even the elaborate illusions Elder Kettles magic conjured matched the heavy thwack of a fist meeting flesh. He thought to escape at that point, only for one of them to be sucker punched and slide to a stop at his feet. Oh these two were _huge._ How in the world did _anyone_ grow so tall?! He’d stared down at one eye—the other was black and swollen shut, but already healing—and then up at the surprised sibling across the way, still in the arena.

“Well now! Looks like we got ourselves a guest!” The standing one barked, shaking a splatter of bright blood off his glove. “And what brings someone of your pathetically weak type onto our humble abode?”

“I think you mixed up humble with homely.”

“What?”

“Or horrifying, I can’t tell if this would be considered plain and rather bland or just gross to you. But this sure isn’t humble.” Somewhere, somehow, he knew his brother was glaring at him. Cuphead’s mouth however, didn’t much care. His saving grace to that abrasive reply was that the standing one found it utterly hilarious. He threw back his head and cackled, a big grin on his face, complete with a busted lip that dripped blood.

“Well ain’t you a mouthy little shit? Where’d you come from? Isle three? Or did Djimmi lose one of his experiments…Or is that Kahl?”

“Bro.”

The other amphibian sounded frigid. Far from the boisterous, amused one across the way.

“Aw what? Did I knock your brain loose again, Ribby?” The taller sibling teased.

“Soul blood.” The downed sibling ignored the jab, two fully healed eyes locked on the tiny splatters of tinted blue on Cuphead’s boots.

The atmosphere dipped. Cuphead’s hands clenched the bag tighter, porcelain creaking.

“What like, that stuff them types got in em instead of the good stuff? What about it? Stuff spills out all the time, remember?”

“It ain’t his color. I see family.”

“What?” Cuphead shouldn’t have spoken, but really, how did two beat-em-up gods know? Why was the one near him frowning—no, Cuphead realized a second later, he was starting to _snarl—_ like that? “Oh! Hey do you know anything about potions?”

“There is. Ey, what kinda nerve possessed you t’ get on _our_ barge like _that?_ ” Gone was the friendly note in that voice. The shorter one—yet still taller than Cuphead by a landslide—rolled onto his feet, looming over Cuphead.

“You got soul on you that ain’t yours. You got the smell of a half-baked fight, and it’s familial. Awful bold of you to approach the only set o’ twin gods wearing the blood of your family. You better be askin how t’ bandage a break.”

“How—no, look, I need someone that knows about potions, it’s for my brother—”

“Fratricide then! Oh! Not just a mortal, one of them what trapped us here wrongfully, but one that got the blood of his brother on him! You wouldn’t go to one of us if it was fixable, you’d be beggin at the stem of Cagney or Rumor! What—”

The boat rocked, a heavy shriek of metal and wood bowing under weight too great for its already half rotted state. The roof above the tall one cracked, then caved, and the trio from before came down with pieces of wood raining down around them.

“Where is that little shit!” Sal shrieked, fury turning his singed and torn flesh bright red.

Cuphead didn’t know what was said next, he’d taken that moment to break away from the lot of them and flee back the way he’d come. The bag hit his leg uncomfortably until he’d hiked it up to his chest. Down the gangplank, he’d raced to the right. At least he hoped it was the right, for all he knew the barge had been moving while he was aboard. Following the small cliff lead him to a plain wooden bridge.

Below boards, still water surged through, staggering him and making him fall backwards. He was caught by a blob. Towering over him, eyeing him with a level of malicious glee that made his soul curdle. A watery hand coiled around his face, dangerously close to crushing him. The liquid that flood his mouth, that dripped into his soul, was horrendous. Slimy and metallic, stagnant and filthy in a way Cuphead couldn’t fathom was possible. One hand scrabbled on the hand, trying in vain to pry it off him as porcelain creaked under building pressure.

“Water sees a lot ya know.” The undulating mass remarked through a ferociously wide grin. “Hears a lot too. It ain’t talkative to me, it don’t need to be for me t’ hear gossip goin on in a barge what got two loud bozo’s in it. Don’t help that you talk an awful lot to someone who aint there.” He practically vibrated with building malevolence, making it clear the whole of Inkwell wasn’t safe. Word was already spreading and it wasn’t flattering to someone already likely on several gods hitlists. Or maybe the blob was lying, maybe he had a connection to souls or death or something and could tell based on the droplets of soul liquid that had washed into the water from his leg. “I’ve never been a fan of _red._ ”

He’d been reaching into his bag when the hand with a glove—red, the damn thing was _red!_ —shot out at him. Something brushed past his hand the second it was touched. A sigil covered paper practically flashed from his bag to just in front of him, and a barrier sprang up. The glove hit, and a rebound like he’d never seen turned the blob into a smear and the bridge into a memory. Cuphead had been frozen, shaking and practically blind with fear, he only moved when the voices from behind him sounded like they were getting louder. He remembered that that barge likely traveled rivers, exactly like the one he was next to, and he shot to his feet. He’d scrabbled up the small cliff dividing the lower portion of Inkwell with the higher portion.

Desperation and blind terror lead him up the path, further from the garden, the crater, the river.

He ran.

He flew straight into a treeline, toppling over into a bush where he immediately curled up as small as he could.

Fratricide.

They called him a murderer.

A murderer of family. Of the one constant, of his twin.

“I didn’t,” He weakly choked out through heaves of distress. His fingers dug into his knees, leaving shallow gouges from the force, and cracks spidering up his hands. He didn’t care if Inkwell was listening.

“I didn’t.” He repeat, though, he was unsure if it was for his benefit or someone else’s. Tears blinded him still, wavering his vision. Yet, even through the wetness, he could see blue. Blue dots on his legs. Blue stains splashed like the blood that had sprayed from those frogs when they attacked each other. Blue splashing over his legs as family crumbled to dust before him, because of his actions. He didn’t think. He just started scrubbing at his leg with his sleeves, the black fabric soaking up spots that had been revived a bit with the stagnant river water. But portions that hadn’t remained stubborn stains on his legs. And his shoes, he couldn’t wipe that off.

“I can fix this.” He whimpered, closing his eyes after the sleeve slipped and his arm harshly ground against his leg, releasing a hellish screech that made his soul flare up with terror at being heard. Yet, even as he listened to the world outside, nothing came for him. No one came up the stairs now hidden by fog, declaring him a murderer. It was little relief, but it was enough for him to wipe his eyes with the bottom of his shirt. Slowly, brokenly, he reached into the bag and pulled out one of the healing potions, downing it and letting it restore his energy as well as fix all manner of hairline cracks all over his body he hadn’t even noticed.

Not drinking it all – _Don’t go through them too quickly brother—_ He put the half empty vial back in the bag, and sat still. Tucked in a bush, wet from that blob, exhausted from that sprint, scared from the constant hostile air around him, he remained curled with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head balanced on top. Listlessly, he stared at a leaf, using the brittle veins in dry green to count the number of gods he’d met and had no success with.

He was starting to think Elder Kettle was right, that the gods were too corrupted to be of any level of help. That no amount of ‘time out’ as Elder Kettle had once put it, would be enough. Light glittered down from above, and his hazy red eyes snapped fully open to focus on the odd sprinkling flecks of pure light.

“Aw, you poor thing, reality got you down?” Cuphead tried to move at the voice, tried to get away, but his body wasn’t replying, and his vision was already growing fuzzy. “Don’t you worry, this dream goddess has _just the place._ ” The world fell out of focus, his lids dropped down, and he was swept into a void of black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere out there is original deity Cuphead, and he's practically dying at the knowledge that if he'd just acted cute and clueless he'd have had gods on his side way faster. And now, for the newly dubbed, tidbit corner!  
> So, unlike Cuphead's Domain, Mugman's has a bit of a 'i need to show you everything because i know it is important.' problem. In that it doesn't get that shoving every single last ability now available to ones adorable child at them at once is a bit of a bad idea. No flames yet, but well... Mugman's Domain has always been more of a 'to whom it may concern' than a 'dear dumbass'.   
> And of course its now that Cuphead gets a bit of dose of reality with the whole 'you totes murdered your only family...nice.' And with this i really do hope it's now entirely clear just how odd the corrupted gods work. Mugman as a mortal was pure- at least by their standards. Just a sweet little mortal trying to help his poor brother. There was no blood on him or whatever. And he cute. He so cute and harmless. Cuphead as a mortal, is not. Oh he could be cute, but they don't much care for cute and few of them actually know he's genuinely a kid. Not all will be ignorant on that part, but she's not up yet.  
> Hilda is next, but i wanted to show off the other gods a bit more too, since that was mentioned in the comments. I'll go into more depth soon, but i hope it's been made more clear just how other Domain's work. Please let me know what else you'd like. What details you want to know about the gods, this is your chance for any questions to be answered and worked in for proper reactions.  
> Thanks to those who have commented, you actually are keeping this going and i adore every word. I shall reward you with what happens when you truly piss off a deity version of Mugman who has access to an inferno and a scale and zero ability to give a thought to mercy.


	4. Infer- no sir.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here she is, there they go.

How three gods could leave so many corpses in their wake short-ciruited him. Mugman hadn’t really been paying attention to pretty much anything that had been said since catching sight of a frightfully skeletal town full of husks of people. Through the eyes of gods who watched the desperate devour their families remains after ripping the very roof off to devour its hides or dry grass. Who watched those they were supposed to protect weep over barren fields teeming with death. Witnesses of what should have been obvious signs of their failure, and took it as a sign of victory. Tearing apart mortals so weak with hunger they couldn’t ‘properly beg for forgiveness’. The very same hands that had crushed skulls, held him now with far more care.

He couldn’t compute it, couldn’t understand just how it went so _wrong._ He knew the onion was chatting to him as they moved over to a rather sorry excuse for a barge. Knew that happy smile aimed at him had been aimed at people who shrieked as acid-tears turned flesh to foam and ate through bone with ease. Knew that peppy voice had been used to scold a mortal just before the tallest of them burrowed frightfully sharp claws into the mortal and tore them apart right before the rest of the half skeletal village. Entire countries had fallen or nearly fallen to this trio. And yet, this same trio looked at him, he who’d been mortal not even three days ago, with none of that hostility.

He’d _tried_ to get away before he saw more than the glimpses he had when asking for hints about his brother’s location. But they followed him, and he didn’t know how to switch off whatever gave him the ability to see into the countless dead this trio had caused. He couldn’t even drown out the dry sobs from throats too weak from begging that surrounded him now. He _hated it_. He wanted to get away from these three. He wanted _away_. But…

He’d made a promise, now that he thought about it. It wouldn’t have been good to leave anyway. He’d promised—his Domain had—to _fix_ these gods. To cleanse them? How? He couldn’t even hear them over their victims. He couldn’t understand the surprisingly patient look given to him by Ollie. The careful pat on his back by Sal who had to reach up because he was still held softly in Chauncey’s hand. Did they not see it? How could they not? They were adults, they were older, like Elder Kettle. How could they not see how he, how they, were mortal once? Why was he so different? Why were they?

“Why?” He found himself asking weakly.

“Oh! It’d be plum awful of us to leave you to the likes of the mortals without any hope of protection! Dangerous lot they are. It’s never enough for them!”

“Ey! Just what do you weeds think you’re doing back here!”

“Ribby! Ribby we’re sorry for breaking your boat!”

“Barge! It’s Barge, and she has a name you uncultured fertilizer!”

The carrots empty fist tightened in frustration, but the one holding him remained loose and gentle. Sal gestured to him, and he heard over the wails for mercy, for understanding, an odd statement. Odd enough that the noises stopped.

“Found a tyke. Don’t even know what his Domain is. He’s the victim of that other brat that came running by.”

“We think he was kept like a trophy.” Ollie whispered conspiratorially to Ribby. The fingers around his waist tightened minutely. Ribby blinked, then he looked harder at Mugman, and once again Mugman found himself drowning in horrifying visions. It wasn’t intentional, but at that moment, he let out a tiny sniffle, and tears built up. He didn’t want to see broken bodies! He didn’t want to see gold and shiny things taken in return for false victories!

“Uh.”

“Chauncey! You’re holding him too harshly! Put him down!”

“I am?! Shiii-st! Sorry!” The ground softly crunched under his feet, a hand far too large tried to brush off whatever dirt had gotten on him after that initial quick dip. Ollie hesitantly reached for him, hands that had held squirming mortals in puddles of acid as punishments. He cringed away, shoulders hunching, body shifting to make him appear smaller.

“This kid? Didn’t think gods could be so small!”

“Yes well, we were hoping you two would know how to help out with figuring out Domains and maybe teaching him how to punch? Or just defend himself?”

“Look how skittish he is! No god should be so frightened, he must have been tortured.” Ollie added. Ribby’s face twisted, distaste sharp in the air as he ate the distance quickly, looming over the tiny deity like everyone else on the isles thus far. The grotesque noise of bones breaking, the horrid noise of lungs sucking down water instead of air, gurgles of mercy through broken jaws and blood-filled throats. He couldn’t hear what the fighter was saying over it all. Something about not being made to fight?

A wave of light-headedness washed over him, ice cold burrowing through the feverish terror that had eclipsed his mind since laying eyes on the gods. A hum—was that his Domain?—softly brushed away the thick fear. Gold shifted to blue.

His hand was taken by bruised and battered fingers, and he let the amphibian lightly examine his arm. He felt the other twin brother slip up behind him, felt eyes burrowing into his back.

“Tortured” He finally— _finally—_ found his voice.

“Oh! Oh dear me, I’m so sorry if we’re bringing up something you don’t want to think about!”

“How long you been a god again? You still smell mortal.” Croaks noted, prodding at the gold lines engraved in Mugman’s arms.

“Croaks! You can’t ask about death dates like that!”

“A few days.”

The gods around him paused. He swore he heard a pin drop, but that was likely just in his head. He hoped the fuzzy feeling was just in his head too. It was getting harder to keep a clear thought, when had he been set down?

Aggressive and abrasive, willing to threaten a perceived adult. No knowledge of porcelain, how it aged, how he wasn’t just petite, he simply wasn’t an adult, and never would be. Under the assumption that no child would dare try to encroach on Inkwell, sure that stories had done their job in keeping young away from the cursed isles. The twins still showed hesitance towards hurting children. No true child appeared hurt in their faults, in their sins. Only adults or older teens.

“My brother played a prank, it didn’t go well. I would have gone after him faster, but I wasn’t allowed to leave. There was a barrier that kept me in place.” They’d need someone else to focus their rage on. He didn’t have the capacity to wash away their sins. That was Feather, and Feather wouldn’t be around for a little longer. Work with what was had then, work with the blatant shock. The realization the one they had before them had been a mortal.

“We usually get bored when our caretaker leaves. It had been a few weeks since we saw him and Cuphead and I thought it was harmless.” Looking at the tiny, dainty little hand eclipsed in an expanse of green. “I guess it wasn’t, but that’s okay. I get to hold it over his head now, which is nice because I think he’s still aging? Do I age? It was a few weeks before our thirteenth birthday, if he’s still aging, then he really is the older twin now.” Keep the voice high and soft, force them to lean closer, take note of the naivety, the cluelessness.

“Caretaker wasn’t so happy when he found me, he yelled a lot. He wasn’t sorry for not telling us, I think he wanted to keep us hidden away a little longer. ‘You aren’t adults yet, not even teenage, not for another two hundred years!’ he said. But brother doesn’t do well alone, and I was worried. I’m so worried, do you know where he is?” Cute, harmless, _young_. The trio may not care about children, but the twins did, and that was all he needed. He hoped Cuphead wouldn’t see this, he’d probably find it funny or scary.

He could see it, their minds frantically trying to work around the information he gave them in the way of a youth seeing safety in elders and gladly saying whatever came to their minds. It would be funny to him later, but now, he had to keep his face soft and his hands limp and his body light and small. It was the amphibians who finally broke first.

“Thirteenth… you’re twelve?”

“We both are, Cuphead and I. Is that important?” Infinitely more careful now the twin brothers examined him. No longer a possible target, a potential threat; just a frail victim.

“No…” Ribby looked uncomfortable. He should, threatening his brother like that. No part of the amphibian twins Domain leaned into judgement, they had no right to judge his sibling for wrongs committed in error against another they didn’t even know.

“Who… who watched over you?” Chauncey. Stuck on the fact that something had trapped a deity from going where they wanted on the mainland.

“I don’t know if I should say? He used to say the gods were all cruel and violent with short tempers. He told us they hurt mortals, and that’s what I was not too long ago. Dying once wasn’t fun, I don’t know if I want to die again.” Ribby and Croaks let out noises of discontent. It lacked aggression though.

“It was Kettle wasn’t it.” Ollie, not surprising.

“Does it matter? We’re mortal—or, my brother is right now, and I was a few days ago—does it matter that he watched over us? I thought you hated mortals so maybe you’re happy to hear Elder Kettle kept Cuphead and I in his home and left us alone for a while?” The large hand tried to close over his, but he pulled it away, big blue eyes peering up at them now, a shimmer of nervousness directed at them brewing in his gaze. Frightened of them, sparks of gold fire glinting, gone too fast to be seen as anything other than a figment of the imagination.

“No!” Ollie cried.

“Ey, it’s not that…” Croaks drifted off, obviously unable or unwilling to say more. Aware now? It wouldn’t be enough. They weighed _so much._ But, closer. If they could _see_ then he could call it a victory. The twins were frowning deeply. The trio were glancing at one another, then at him, then back at each other. So focused and unbalanced, they didn’t notice the new intrusion, but threads of gold, glinting like spiderwebs, did. Turning grey with the rot of death that brushed past them towards him. Blue turned to look at the newcomer and control slipped away.

“It—oh what—Your boat is leaking corpses again!”

The biggest fly he’d ever seen. Its head twitching on a mangled neck, it reached a mold covered, rotten hand towards him. And for a moment all he could hear were the sounds of a tiny intruder in his soul liquid, dropped there by an impish brother wanting to know what would happen if a bug fell in either of their heads.

Its hand touched his face, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Uh…”

-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Mugman didn’t remember how he got away from the gods. He didn’t know why the area behind him was full of screams and the crackle of fire. The fog was still thick enough that the most he got was there was now a bonfire behind him. He would have gone to investigate, but he felt like scrubbing his entire face off first, just to be sure no gross bug residue was still on him. Straining to find memories of what happened after being put down in front of the twins, he found himself close enough to an oddly still river.

It would have to do he supposed. The water was close enough that a tiny slip down the banks would get him near enough to the water to dip his hands in. Except as his knees fell into the soft dirt, as he leaned over and caught the glint of gold in his eyes, he caught sight of something else too.

Two big eyes looked back at him.

He blinked, and so did they.

He tilted his head, and the water rose, a bubble forming…no, a blob? Blue blinked to gold, and Mugman was starting to think it was because exhaustion was weighing on him, but he rather thought that drowning was a bit less gruesome than what the others behind him had done. Were they doing anything about that bonfire? The fog made it hard, but he could still see the light he thought, maybe the fog was lighter than before? He was getting tired. He didn’t think he’d actually slept since dying. It had to have been a couple days since he snoozed, and now he was really dragging.

“Well if it aint the relative of the one who blew me up! You got any idea how painful that was! If I was any less amazing I would still be stuck like them vegetables! He ruined my face! Look at this face!” The blob shoved what must have been his face at Mugman. Mugman tilt his head. “Ya know, you got a real pathetic brother. Not a single ounce of groveling towards me while I was lecturing him. Didn’t even try and praise the anger out of me! I would have forgiven him a bit for killin something blue if he’d groveled but no! No he just—”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Goopy paused mid-rant, a dangerous edge to the air locking his jaw open. Curiously, he let his voice die, looking around for the sudden threat. It must have been something severe if it made his soul shudder on instinct. But there was nothing. Just the fog and the trees and the water and the teacup. He knew the water behind him wasn’t dangerous, despite his Domain’s continued silence. And the trio were currently on fire and screaming and wailing and saying all kinds of odd things that sounded an awful lot like apologies.

So the ground wasn’t the threat. The fog? No, that was still within his Domain, no matter what Wally wanted to think. A petty little cloud was _nothing_ compared to the tsunamis and flash floods him and his sister could dredge up. It wasn’t the air either, because he was Goopy, and air did nothing to him. So he turned his focus to the tyke before him. Real tiny the fella was, and blue! The gold was a fancy touch, and the white looked a bit soft, not as fancy as marble, but it wasn’t awful. He was worthy enough to wear Goopy’s color for now. But, Goopy paused at the eyes, and squint, one hand going under his chin to scratch it. Were they different from before? He could have sworn they were gold before. Now though, they were an odd sort of blue. Not bright like he’d seen before.

He leaned closer, and the void looked back at him. The kid blinked; lids dusted in gold hiding horrors untold behind them briefly. But it was enough for Goopy to rear back.

“Uh—”

“I have a shadow puppy.”

Goopy felt his immortal soul die a little. Out the corner of his eye he _swore_ he saw Chalices’ Domain inch away from the vicinity.

“My shadow puppy shows me things. I don’t like seeing them but I do. Was it fun to drown those people?” The kid’s shoulders were slumped a bit, lazy in posture…No, tired. Goopy wasn’t sure what to do, so he tried to do what he did best.

“O-Oh yeah, you can see that stuff? Yeah that’s uh, that’s what happens when mortals get uppity!”

“What are you made out of Mr. Blob?”

“Goopy Le Grande. My name is—”

“Things have boiling points, did you know that Mr. Blob? Elder Kettle showed us one day.” Blank blue locked onto Goopy’s black gaze, and the void in the blue waved hello. “I don’t like how you tried to hurt Cuphead, Mr. Blob, that was rude, and I don’t like rude people.”

Goopy swore he saw the void cower. Blank blue slowly blinked but one more time.

“Would you like to know what your boiling point is?”

-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-

Cuphead woke to the sun sliding through a gap in the curtains hitting him on the face. Groaning, he buried his head under the soft blanket, determined to stay comfortable for just a little longer. Shifting on the mattress, he listened to the old wood frame creak under his squirming, then his hearing refocused on other external noises. From the birds whistling sporadically, to the wind pushing on the glass panes with a gentle breeze. Then, past the door, to rhythmic creaks familiar only in their sporadic regularity. So Elder Kettle was back, he was in his rocking chair, likely reading or snoozing, it depended. Beyond that though he strained harder, and finally heard the light humming.

Content to know his brother was in the house, safe and sound, eased Cuphead’s mind from the odd buzzing it had been doing since he woke. An annoying hum of ‘something is off, something is wrong’ that he felt lessen the longer the humming continued. But, his eyes refused to stay closed, and he found himself staring at the faint line of light that managed to pierce through the fabric of the blanket.

Glass shattered outside, and memories flooded in.

The blanket caught his socks, and he faceplanted into the carpet. The very one that had been put down after so many toddler tumbles off a bed never designed for baby cups resulting in broken limbs and shrieking infants. Through the haze of panic blazing through him, he caught sight of tiny flecks of white porcelain chips, embedded in the fibers regardless of how often they took the thing outside to clean. He tore himself free, throwing himself at the door, practically breaking the frame as he ripped it open and fought to run on wooden floors into the main rooms. He flew past Elder Kettle, almost crashed into the little wall that separated the kitchen from the living room and slid into the kitchen.

His brother looked at him, broom in hand, glass and water scattered around him, wide blue eyes going wider still at the state of the brother in red.

“M…” His feet stated to carry him into the kitchen, hesitant, afraid.

“Cuphead? What’s gotten—hey, wait don’t, there’s water all over the floor!” Mugman shrieked as he was tackled and lifted into the air. Cuphead felt hands push at his face, heard the half scolds, half worried noises, and couldn’t find it in himself to care as his socks soaked up water, and as shards of glass broke further under his weight. Soon enough, he found himself hugged back, and he basked in something he thought he’d never get again.

“Oh come now, I wasn’t gone long enough for you to get this clingy, did you have a bad dream?”

Had all of it been a dream? Had he imagined the potion, the shattering, the island? Maybe there’d been something in the water? Carrying Mugman—something easy to him, it wasn’t like his arms would get tired, and he’d carted his brother around on a whim for as long as he could remember—to the sink, he started the tap and leaned closer, trying to see anything suspicious or smell anything off. But no, it looked like regular water. Maybe it was in the flowers? Could pollen affect them? He’d always assumed that no, they weren’t affected by that stuff but they _had_ just planted new flowers so…

“Yeah, yeah I did, it was weird.” He left it at that, and his brother didn’t question him further.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

He was starting to think he was freaking his brother out with all the staring, but Cuphead couldn’t help it. He had to make sure there were no cracks, no chips or breaks. Wasn’t Mugman made of bone china? Or was he remembering Elder Kettle’s odd musings wrong? Wasn’t that stuff more delicate? He’d never met another porcelain being and wasn’t sure how to ask. Mostly on the off chance that asking got Elder Kettle on a tangent or got him to show them via potions and more trauma he didn’t think he could handle at that moment.

He followed Mugman around instead of doing his chores, not that the house needed dusting, everything was freakishly spotless, smelling of an eerily clean home rather than the usual odd potion smell that tended to permeate the boards after one too many incidents. The day wore on, and he found himself getting that feeling again.

‘Something is wrong, something is off.’

And that only made him look closer, much to Mugman’s annoyance. But no, Mugman didn’t seem off, and if he was acting different, well so was Cuphead, so he could forgive the odd glances and huffs of impatience. So he looked elsewhere. Was it the floorboards? That one he’d walked on normally creaked, and it didn’t now, but Elder Kettle was home, so he’d probably fixed it. The lack of dust or potion smell? The windows were open, so that may have aired it out a little? That never seemed to work before but maybe it was Elder Kettle’s magic? They still didn’t know what their caretaker _couldn’t do_ with his magic. The outside? No, it was still sunny out, and there was the garden. Was that off? Yes, it looked older, they’d been unable to regrow the begonias, but those were there now. Had Elder Kettle brought them?

That was when he finally paused.

And slowly, cherry red eyes found the still slowly rocking Kettle.

Was that a glint under those closed eyes? Was he watching? That was off, and creepy. He went from watching Mugman, to watching Elder Kettle as the day slid from early afternoon to early evening. He’d find himself catching Mugman’s arm before his brother could go near the eerily peaceful god, never allowing Mugman close. He’d run out of good excuses a while ago but Mugman appeared to have caught on and allowed himself to be sat at the dining room table that had never seen a scrap of edible food but still bore the scars of odd experiments.

“Hey, why’s Elder Kettle sticking around?” Cuphead leaned close to Mugman, whispering the question, hopeful the soft humming from his brother would hide his words. Mugman paused, a brow arched at him.

“What?”

“Shh!” Cuphead hissed, flicking another glance at the rocking deity. “You know what I mean! He’s usually gone by now, does he have something brewing?”

“What do you mean?” Mugman leaned closer to him, playing along. Cuphead sharply jerked away, palms on the table, affronted.

“He does doesn’t he? Is that why things are so clean in here? Any potion that uses the dust of a house can’t be good and you aren’t drinking it.”

Mugman slowly blinked at him, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Why would I?” His brother spoke slowly, confusion tinged with something odd.

“Oh I know you didn’t forget the time he gave us that one potion that made us metal for a day. Or that potion that turned me into black marble. What about that one that shattered—” Cuphead choked, his words grinding to a halt for just a moment before he caught his stride again. “I’m putting my foot down, if he tries to get us to drink anything, you do the cute thing and I’ll get the squirrels to stage that rebellion we’ve been planning.”

Mugman didn’t speak, he gave a tiny nod, and eased away from the brother in red. Cuphead let him, resting his chin on his arms as he leaned on the table, staring at Elder Kettle, feeling oddly aggressive towards their caretaker.

A bit of time passed, the humming returned, and he started to mull over his surroundings. He still had the sense of wrong, and there was something prodding at the back of his mind. It was enough to keep his usually too energetic self still in the chair, listening to his brother practice embroidery, and Elder Kettle creak in that stupid old rocking chair. His eyes drifted between the god and his sibling, and finally, he started to notice other things.

That pattern was one he’d already done. Cuphead would know because he knew he was wearing the shirt with a little outline of his own head and a letter C on the inside to mark whose shirt was whose. Mugman had only done it to one shirt, then decided to try other patterns that were more elaborate. So why would he do it again? And the house, it just couldn’t smell the way it did. Elder Kettle actually had tried to remove the smells before, and they’d spent that weekend ‘camping’ as he called it. He’d bet his straw if he moved the rug by the fire he wouldn’t find the scorch marks, especially since that rug hadn’t survived that explosion. And the humming, Elder Kettle was normally chatting away, or playing his gramophone, or the radio. And actually, never once had his musically inclined sibling tried to turn on the thing.

That was wrong, that was off.

“Hey.” Cuphead tapped the table a couple times, and the humming paused. And for a moment, Cuphead found the strength to call whatever this was out for its lie and go from there. But the longer he waited, the faster the will to leave the side of his brother died.

He shook his head, and the humming began anew.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

There was no moon, but there was moonlight.

There were no stars, but the sky wasn’t devoid of light.

Elder Kettle hadn’t moved, and there was a new weight on his chest that made even the balm that was his siblings almost normal self ineffective.

He still refused to let Mugman near the fake Kettle, still found excuses to avoid the one in the corner. Every so often he swore he caught glints of copper but he didn’t even try to think the thing wearing Elder Kettle’s skin wasn’t paying attention at this point. A restlessness had descended on him, and despite the moonlight, he felt more awake than ever, finding himself climbing the counters to get the highest glass just for the fun of it.

“You’re going to break something and I’m going to glue it wrong.” He heard his brother say. He scoffed, lazily waving the other back as he debated which glass to use. Reaching into the cupboard when he saw a bit too much caked dust for his liking, he stood on his tip toes to reach further in the back. He heard Mugman huff, heard him walk away and sit at the table, but he didn’t see it.

A gold slit eye stared at him through the void darkness of the cupboard.

Later on, he’d remark proudly that he had, in fact, _not screamed_ and instead closed the cupboard without taking a glass, hopped down from the counter, and plopped down at the table.

“This is a weird dream isn’t it.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what else it could be, a lightshow from the fog? A flower? A potion effect? I didn’t drink anything thought and blew up the last dirt gods I saw. So it’s got to be a dream… I think?” Cherry red drift across the scene until they stopped on bright blue.

Bright blue, that turned to deep moonlight silver between one blink and the lazy rise, staring at him like half-moons. A smile, smug and confident slid across his brother’s face, and instantly a bloom of ugly rage bit into him as the imposter pressed forward on the table with his elbows, leaning on the wooden surface languidly.

“But it’s a nice dream, isn’t it?” Had that ever been Mugman? Had he been the fake the whole time and not Elder Kettle? And he’d been too distracted hadn’t he. He’d protected an imposter from an imposter. Well then, the jerk wanted to know what he thought? He just hoped when the thing killed him in his sleep he’d finally get to see his brother, even if it meant a fierce scolding.

“Nice! Ha!” Cuphead laughed loudly and obnoxiously, slamming his fist on the table a few times. “Nice the creepy fake says. Nice! Like you didn’t decide to throw nightmares in one corner and no effort to anything outside the house! Nice! Elder Kettle didn’t say there were lesser gods but you’ve got to be one. There’s no way an actual dream deity would look at _this_ ” He threw his arms out, well aware the other had to throw himself—herself?—to avoid his swing. “And think, yeah, yeah this is the best way to show off what I can do. A boring house scene, fantastic, there’s no way this’ll backfire. Oh and can’t forget creepy corner and scary cabinet!” He slammed his open hands on the table again and shoved an accusatory finger in the others face.

“Awful! Not a single pirate battle or burning building rescue. Not even a crazy troll or sorcerer demanding hands in marriage! Nothing!” He leaned closer so he could get directly in the others face. “I’m _appalled._ And bored!” He threw himself back. “And if you had been Mugs you’d know how dangerous that is!”

“Well I’m obviously not.”

The voice came from behind him and _this time_ he shrieked. One second he was at the table, the next, he was half in the sink. The woman who’d been behind him blinked at where he’d been almost dumbly.

“Damn.” She said after a few beats of silence, and then she clapped, and Cuphead’s face bloomed bright red.

“Awful!” He shrieked at her, desperately wishing he’d at least put a glass on the counter so he could throw it at her. “And get rid of that creepy fake Elder Kettle, I don’t need more nightmares!”

She burst into light chuckles, waving away the entire living room. Everything beyond the kitchen and dining room fell into a void of black, falling away like sand.

“Name’s Hilda Berg, Goddess of dreams. There’ll be no nightmares for you unless I will it. And I don’t!” She paced lazily around the table until she stood closer to the fake brother who’d returned to looking like Mugman, blue eyes and curious frown and all. Cuphead debate how smart it’d be to dive out the window and be done with it. And then she leaned towards Mugman and her sharp nails scraped along his cheek, down until she held his chin in her dainty hold. She tilted his head this way and that, humming lightly, mockingly using the same song Mugman had.

Fake or no, Cuphead _loathed_ the sight.

“Aw, such a cutie. Too bad he’s dead!” Hilda said, patting the dream Mugman’s cheek and standing back to her full height. Her moonlight silver gaze pierced Cuphead’s as she finally addressed him eye to eye.

“If its pirate battles you want, Brineybeards’ better for that. But I’m sure I can scrounge for something. It’s not as easy as it used to be but I can already hear my Domain whispering again. Been a while, so its not too clear. That’s not important though. What is important is I’ve finally got a mortal to show off to and it turns out to be a murderer who was raised by the most hated being on all of the Isles.” She leaned her hip on the table, tutting disappointedly.

“Is that why you just had him sit in the creepy corner and stare?”

“Well yes but actually no. I can’t get too far into your memories, hence the oddities you noticed.” She answered easily. “Usually it’s a snap to reach deep into a sleeping mortal’s mind, pull out everything they are, everything they’ve done, or aspire to do or be, and shape that to fit the perfect scene. But you? Nothing! I got a bit out of the surface and then it was nothing! You hit your head recently?” She squint at him, nail tapping the table steadily.

Cuphead glared at her, refusing to answer the jerk who’d had the opportunity to give him a cool pirate battle and instead gave him creepy Kettle. She huffed an amused laugh, eyes narrowed in an expression he didn’t know how to read.

“I tell you what, I might not have gotten it perfect this time.” She pulled a docile Mugman up to his feet and tugged at a sleeve here, pulled at his handle there, examined him like she was looking for what needed to be changed until perfection was achieved. Cuphead bristled instantly, the image jarring to him. The real Mugman would have kicked her shins by now, or at the very least would have been leading the conversation in a way that’d get Cuphead out of trouble. Not just standing there, watching Hilda mess with his shirt collar and scrutinize his hands for missing details.

He must have said something, or maybe thought it really loud? Were they really in his mind? But Hilda heard it, and she gave him a demeaning grin. Disdainful and snide, far from the bemused it’d been thus far.

“You _do_ realize he’s fake right?” She told him. Standing back to her full height, she took a step, dragging the still docile form by his upper arm that she gripped so tightly the fabric near audibly ground into porcelain. “Everything here is what I’ve created for you. Because I felt like being nice.” She took another step, and Mugman followed without resistance. Cuphead’s soul liquid _burned._ She just arched a brow, mocking and cruel.

“It’s been a while, and I’m bored. I miss making grand adventures for mortals. I was reborn to do it after all, and no mortal here is sane enough anymore. I’ll have to be careful with you, but that’ll be easier if you just do what I say.” She got closer, now standing only a few steps away, Mugman’s wrist tight in one hand, his upper arm in her other. “Course…” She paused, her grip tightened “if you really _do_ want nightmares… I can do that too.”

Fake or no, when a crack rang out and Mugman’s wrist fractured, breaking his hand off, Cuphead forgot about the fact that he was talking to someone who could kill him.

“A nightmare? Is that what you call it when you appear in dreams? Sounds about right.” He shrugged, tapping the sink with one shoe. She twitched. “But if you’re offering to show off, this wasn’t the best starter. How rusty are you again?”

“Haha. Says the brat who’s been out for a full day lapping up the little bit of normalcy I give him.” She dropped the broken wrist, porcelain rained down, splashing into the growing pool of blue tinted liquid. Cuphead fought to keep his focus away from the sound and sight, struggling to take in her words. “But I’ll bite! I’m bored, and you’ve got nowhere else to go, so just let me into your memories, and I’ll make this one perfect for you, and keep that waste of metal out of it!” She pat Mugman’s shoulder lightly. “It’d be like keeping a plant alive, just water you every few days and you can have all the adventures you want! What do you—”

“Wait did you say a day?”

“What?”

“A day, that…I’m asleep?!”

“Yeeessss?” Hilda leaned back, glancing at the false sibling as if he’d help. Gold peered back at her.

“ _You let me sleep a whole day?! Oh Mugs is gonna kill me! I_ ”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Cuphead shot up from the couch, launching into the air and over the back. Heedless of the surprised shout behind him he didn’t even bother with the door. Energy raced through his soul, powering his sprint onto the small table below a window. Outside, he caught sight of a tree, branches scraping on the pane of glass keeping him from getting back into the isles and back on his mission. Between one blink and the next, the glass was shattered, raining down to the ground below, with Cuphead close behind. He leapt out, landing on the branch and artfully descending faster than his thoughts could keep up with. His body knew what to do enough to get him to the ground, and then he was off again.

The entire time, he thought only of how furious his brother was going to be when he found out Cuphead had slept for a full day while he languished in the afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the question as to how he'd handle Hilda? The element of surprise is how. She'd can't force people to stay asleep if they surprise her or slip out of her grip. Once he was aware it was all fake, it became easier for him to get away. Like when Mugman realized he couldn't read the book, something he should have been able to do. For him, that was more than enough to break him out. It certainly helps that she essentially let a kid nap excessively. One that builds energy the longer he's asleep. She'd have been better off dumping coffee in his head than letting him sleep as long as she did.  
> Hilda seems popular, which is neat! I'm glad that she is too. If there's something you're confused about with her or the others, by all means, ask away.  
> He wasn't asked for, so no Cagney, I'll leave that a mystery and move to Isle two for Cuphead.  
> I swear I'm trying to get these chapters out faster, and i do apologize for the wait.
> 
> Tidbit time!  
> Hilda is based on Morpheus and a couple night related deties like Artemis.  
> Cranky Mugman is an entirely different class of danger, and putting deity status on Cranky Mugs makes that class nigh catastrophic.  
> Cuphead doesn't like sleeping as much, getting jittery the longer he's asleep.  
> Mugman's Domain voted 'most likely to possess its child to ensure safety'  
> Goopy's and Cala's voted 'most likely to watch their children burn'

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought, and it's been confirmed in a way thanks to the official art book, Cuphead's a lot more impulsive and sporadic. So of course, Cuphead would know to grab a bag for the book, and he'd know to pack up on restoratives, but what else he might have grabbed is debatable on its actual usefulness. For all he knows he's got a wooden fish sculpture and a single sock tucked amongst the shirts and shorts he stuffed in that pack.  
> But! As stated, there's room for more, and I might add more, but it's more up to what you want to know.  
> Also if anyone who doesn't speak flower wants to know, Begonia's can mean beware.


End file.
